This is Not a Love Song
by Shatterdoll
Summary: What was so wrong with hooking up with an old enemy every now and then to lick each other's wounds? Especially when they are so good at the licking part... RussiaxAmerica, M for saucy content.


Hello once more gentle readers~ I bring you more RussiaxAmerica! Can you tell who my favorite pairing in Hetalia is yet? I really like the idea behind this one shot. Sorry if it comes off as a bit long winded or wordy but... well I love it the way it is.

**Disclaimer: **The characters of Axis Powers Hetalia certainly do not belong to little old me.

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Russia's fingers glide over America's bare skin. He circles a spot on America's side. "Was it here?"

"A little lower."

"Of course, right here..." His finger travels down half an inch. "Tell me about this one."

America closes his eyes. "The war of 1812. It twinges whenever Canada mentions burning down the White House."

Russia leans in and kisses it gently. Then his lips are running up against soft skin to the right shoulder. "And here?"

"Pearl Harbor. That one only hurts on the anniversary these days."

Russia turns America over, tongue tracing down his spinal column. Then he nuzzles a spot a bit off from America's spine, a cluster of barely healed scars.

America inhales sharply. "Those ones still hurt like a bitch."

Russia runs his tongue over each one slowly. "I know. Tell me. What are they?"

For a moment this entire ritual feels completely ludicrous to America. That this had been repeated so many times that Russia could successfully locate each old wound and hurt makes him slightly nauseous. Still, he finds himself answering despite this.

"9/11, and all the resulting wars and conflicts."

Russia smirks against the skin. "I remember."

He also remembers the Vietnam war on America's upper right arm, the Korean war on America's left calf, the Alamo on the back of America's neck, and of course his absolute favorite...

He turns America over again and sinks between his legs, breath hot against his thigh. "And here?"

America flushes. "Civil War. That one has never stopped aching. Neither has the War of Independence."

Russia always forgets where that one is. Of course he is pretty sure he purposely blocks that one from his memory. "It is...?"

America taps his heart. It was such a sentimental spot it was disgusting. No wonder he always blocked it. Russia reaches up and strokes the spot before his fingers slide down and circle America's nipple. America shivers.

Russia's mouth and fingers find both World Wars, two major assassinations, and the Great Depression. Despite knowing their locations, how much they still ache if at all, and what they represent, Russia asks about each and every one as if it is new. And every time America answers.

Finally Russia hunts down all the major pains America had suffered. There were others... So many others, but most of them had become dormant or had never been particularly major. As if the whole thing was choreographed, Russia silently changes places with America, leaning against the pillows. America slides between his legs, hovering over Russia. "Where shall I start? I can't be expected to remember things that have nothing to do with me."

Russia leans in and lightly kisses America. His occasional shows of snide ignorance were always most amusing. "Might as well just cover your bases and go over my entire body. I have far too many old wounds to remember myself."

That was usually what Russia did. Sometimes he would actually help America hunt down individual pains to soothe but America suspects that's only when they were actually hurting. With an exasperated sigh America leans down and starts to kiss Russia's shoulder. Some horrible battle was there, he's just not sure which. He runs his hands across Russia's broad chest. It was annoying that Russia wouldn't help him. He was a big man. There was a lot of skin to cover.

America's fingers hesitate over a spot on Russia's abdomen. "Russo-Japanese war?"

"Very good, you remembered one."

America leans down and kisses the spot, tongue tracing over it then traveling lower and to the... left? Was there something there?

"The right."

America changes course and looks up when Russia lets out an indistinct grunt when he reaches it. "Battle of Zorndorf."

America rubs his cheek against it. "Hmm, let me think, there was another one..."

"As I said, you don't have to look for the individual ones."

America frowns and leans up. "But that's the whole point! And I can't remember your wounds like you remember mine."

Russia can't help but smirk. He knows that America does not feel ashamed that he has not remembered as many locations as Russia so much as he thinks of it as a direct challenge. Something new to beat the Russian at.

"Try on my left hip around where the bone is. Most recent Russian civil war." America quickly jumps to the spot and begins to suck on it.

A pang of desire goes through Russia. The sucking mouth would be much more appreciated on a certain other part of his body that was very close to where America is...

Truth be told America didn't have near the attention span as Russia meaning he usually got through a few old wounds before getting bored. This suited Russia just fine. After being so thorough over America's body then having America suck or lick or kiss a few places on his body, Russia was usually pretty ready to just get around to fucking.

"America..."

America looks up, knowing what the tone meant. Still, he wants to pretend they haven't done this so much that he knows the process by heart. "What?"

Russia perks a brow, amazed he insisted on playing dumb. Then again it wasn't any different then his asking about each wound that he already knew on America. It was the game. "Perhaps you could focus your attention a bit to your right."

America flushes and Russia grins. "I don't recall you having any old wounds there."

"Think of it as an all around fixer upper."

America stares at Russia's cock warily. It never stopped being terrifyingly big. Thank god Russia never forced him to deep throat anymore. That would always damn near kill him.

America shifts over it and swirls his tongue experimentally over the very tip. "Oh please don't tease. When you tease it simply makes me miserable and you defeat the whole purpose."

America rolls his eyes and takes the head into his mouth, sucking softly just to piss Russia off. Russia growls low, almost threateningly and America finally takes in more, increasing the pressure of his sucking. He takes his mouth away and licks the underside slowly then nuzzles it with his cheek.

"Америка!" Russia snaps impatiently.

America smiles smugly then takes it back into his mouth, starting to bob his head up and down, syncing it with each suck and trying to remember to breathe through his nose. Russia lets out a moan of appreciation.

America takes his mouth away, the member now fully erect. He hadn't let Russia come in his mouth since the Cold War. And only because back then it was forced. As he licks away a stray strand of saliva Russia pets his hair fondly. "Very good. If I do say so you have definitely improved at that."

It's not a compliment America particularly appreciates. "Whatever. What now?"

Russia puts his hands on America's sides feeling the ribs beneath the skin, and pulls America further up. "Shall we skip to the main attraction?"

America looks down at him with an air of indifference. "If you're ready to move on fine by me."

Russia allows one hand to slip down and cup America's ass. He applies pressure, pushing him down so that his body grinds against Russia's. The two shiver at the contact. America looks almost angry, as if his body had betrayed him.

Russia adores how America looks when he is angry. It still makes his pulse quicken more than anything else. That expression conjures erotic images of America pressed against a hard floor, eyes blazing, lip bleeding from a brutal kiss... "Kiss me."

America almost frowns then leans in and kisses Russia, mouth open and waiting for his tongue. The two immediately deepen the kiss as if in silent agreement. A battle for dominance immediately begins between their tongues, snaking and wrapping around one another fiercely.

Determined to win, America begins to grind his hips. Russia gasps into his mouth but after the small slip continues. To counterattack he begins to grab America's ass again, pushing down, grinding harder. Both of them are soon panting breathlessly. Russia is close to breaking down when America finally ends the kiss, back arching. A sexy moan escapes his lips and he closes his eyes, face flushing. Russia grabs America and flips both of them so America is once more against the pillows and Russia is on top.

"Now." A single command, rough and demanding. It was in moments like this that America suspects Russia's usual voice was an act. His voice could go so low when he was in the throws of desire. Not that it mattered, but that kiddie voice freaked him the fuck out. He much preferred this low, masculine sound.

"Get to it then."

~.

When had this all started? Sometime during the Cold War, though the exact date is obscured in both of their memories. It hadn't been planned, talked about, decided. It had just happened. And in those days it was pure hate sex. Liquid lust. The pressure would build and while their people did not exchange a single blow—except to the occasional spy—the two of them would leave dark bruises, deep cuts, and vicious bites across one another's body. The sex had been primal and brutal. Almost rape, all but abuse, both sadistic and masochistic to the extreme.

It had also been incomprehensibly hot.

Neither of them would admit it out loud under pain of torture but neither could ever deny it. That's why they continued to seek one another out in dark alleyways and obscure rooms in strange buildings. Not once did they ever plan one of these rendezvous but they went out of their way to encourage them. While the war had been as cold as a Russian winter the passion had practically consumed them in its flames.

Then, quite suddenly, almost overnight, the USSR fell. Russia was defeated. After that it had stopped. The lust was gone. The two didn't have enough hostility to muster the same effect. Over time their feelings simmered to deep disdain and dislike. No longer pure loathing. That could have been the end of it. Should have been. But in the back of their minds neither wanted for it to be the end. After all, when one got right down to it, it had been damn good sex. Something that became thoroughly lacking in both country's lives after the end of the Cold War.

Finally, on another obscure date, the two of them had found a new way to get off. It was still good even if it wasn't driven by raw sexual desire and was tinged with a similar self-loathing. Simply a different form of it. If both were asked who had come up with this new arrangement, they would each insist it had been the other who thought of it, who wanted it. They were just playing along. Of course.

In other words, it was impossible to know. Still, no matter whose idea, both find it incredibly gratifying. In randomly chosen hotel rooms they had redefined the term 'licking each other's wounds' for hours. And quite a bit more often than either is willing to admit.

Pity parties set for two.

~.

Russia takes a small tube from the bedside drawer. They used lube now. It never stops being absurd to him. They had always gotten along without it before. Then again in those days it was his goal to make America scream and it had never mattered if it was from pleasure or pain. He doesn't like how cold it is, but it does amuse him to watch America shiver as he trails a coated finger along his entrance before pushing it in.

As he begins his preparation, Russia leans down and begins to nibble on America's collar bone. Thinks about nipping just hard enough to nick the skin then decides against it. No doubt his bed partner would take it as a threat. He had made the mistake of drawing blood once before—and it had been such a small amount too—and America had pulled a gun out from beneath the pillow. He had pressed it to Russia's temple, made various threats, and left immediately. After that there had been a long interval before America was willing to enter a hotel room with him. Had to be careful with such a temperamental, paranoid child. These were not the glory days when spilled blood had been anticipated, maybe expected. They had been different countries back then.

Time was always changing things so very subtlety until the old was corroded beyond repair. Russia almost shares the sentiment then decides America would not understand and keeps it to himself.

Russia soon adds a second finger, moving them around. America breathes more heavily but struggles to hide how it affects him. Russia doesn't really care. This whole part bores him. He would rather be tracing along America's skin looking for old wounds or actually committing their lewd act then getting him ready for it.

As he adds a third finger and America wriggles appealingly against them Russia decides to take advantage of the moment.

"Let me handcuff you."

A frown flickers across America's face, replaced by pleasure as Russia's fingers locate a magical little spot.

America restlessly brushes his hair back and looks up at Russia with eyes glazed with lust. "No."

Russia tries to manipulate the spot to get what he wants. "Just once. I won't kill you or damage you or anything. Please Alfred?"

America shakes his head sharply. "No human names. And hell no."

Russia pouts and continues to work America's sweet spot with his fingers. "But why not?"

America closes his eyes. It was hard to concentrate. His body is a live wire, waves of pleasure rolling over him with each stroke of Russia's fingers. He opens his mouth and a moan escapes. He tries to gather his wits. "Because I don't trust you. If I let you... let you handcuff me then I would be defenseless if you attacked me. It's never- Mmmmm... It's never going to happen."

Russia leans in and licks the edge of America's ear before biting the lobe gently. "Not even your ankles? Well then what about rope or scarves? You could break those if you really wanted."

The pace of Russia's fingers slow to a crawl. Russia was trying to use his lust against him. Well that wasn't happening. As much as his body aches for the continued stimulation America's mind steels itself. "Absolutely not! Even a second might be too late. Now stop asking about it, I said no!"

It was starting to really bug him how much Russia was trying to push this. He has asked the last few times they had been together, the question popping up at various points, as if he was trying to see if timing would somehow change his mind.

America inwardly admits this was probably one of the best times to attempt it. Still, he wasn't giving in. Not even to scarves or rope because he knows perfectly well if he caves even an inch on the issue he would find himself in handcuffs sooner or later. And he never wanted to be that vulnerable with Russia. Besides, handcuffs would change the rules of the game.

"But-"

America loses his patience. "I'm getting sick of this crap! I'm pretty tempted to leave right now!"

Russia extracts his fingers completely and looks down at America. "Then leave."

America's face twitches. He is silent for a long time, glaring up at Russia. He doesn't actually want to leave but if it meant saving face he could do it. If there was some way to save the situation without admitting he wanted this...

Even though Russia had told him to leave he keeps a firm hand on America's shoulder. He didn't want America to leave any more than America doesn't want to go. However, he wanted the handcuffs very badly. Russia had come to know America's body intimately over the course of these sex sessions. Every weak spot, the places that hurt the most... It was like a map of flesh he could now read. America himself had provided the key. He wanted America to be defenseless, at his most vulnerable. He wanted to play with America in this way, exploiting him until he begged for mercy. It wasn't so much that he wanted to hurt him so much as he wanted to own him. Temporarily at least. He wanted all parts of America, taking him in both pleasure and pain. If holding out made America weaken to the idea he would stand firm.

The silence stretches a moment longer and finally America leans back, hands going behind his head casually. "I said I was tempted, not that I was actually going. Way to overreact. If you're so uneager to continue..."

Russia smiles, glad the moron had found a convenient save for himself. "My mistake. Perhaps we can continue the conversation about the handcuffs after we've finished."

America seizes the peace offering immediately. "Yes, if you insist. Afterwards."

Russia lifts America's legs. "I think you're ready to go."

With alarm, America opens his mouth to protest. That whole stare down had taken him out of that mind frame. He needed- Too late.

He gasps as Russia presses into him, bringing his hands down to claw at Russia's back. "Bastard!"

Russia chuckles. To be honest he liked entering America when he wasn't quite prepared yet. It tended to make him a little angrier during sex which Russia preferred.

America growls in his ear. "You're a menace!"

Russia pulls back then enters more deeply. "Oh? Would you like me to stop?"

Instead of answering, America attacks Russia's lips fiercely. Russia lets him do as he will with his mouth, more interested in setting a steady pace. America bites his lip. "You aren't paying enough attention to me."

Russia licks his lip. Not bleeding. Too bad. "Mm, sorry, I'll get to worshiping you in a moment. Why don't you spend some time worshiping me in the meantime?"

America snorts. "My ass isn't doing that for me?"

Russia smirks and brushes his fingers across America's cheek. "You are a snarky little thing aren't you?"

America winks. "I try."

That's too much for him. Russia grabs his wrists and pins them. Makeshift handcuffs. America tries to tug them free. "Come on, let me go. I can't do anything when you have me pinned like this."

Russia leans down and kisses his neck. "But this is exactly how I want you. Just think what I could do if my hands were free..."

America grunts in annoyance. This again. Still, even he can't deny in this moment the idea has a certain appeal... "Russia."

Russia lifts his head up from the nape of America's neck. "Mm?"

America leans forward and half-playfully bites Russia's nose. "Quit it, you're going to kill my hard on with your sales pitch."

Russia chuckles. "Well we wouldn't want that would we?"

Still, even as he returns to licking America's neck he refuses to relinquish his hold. Give him a taste of how it would feel. America grits his teeth. This was driving him crazy. He wants to touch Russia, to prove that he has power over him just as he has power over America.

"Let go of me already. And remember not to leave any visible marks," he snaps. If Russia was going to be a bitch then he would be one right back.

"My, wouldn't England throw a fit if he knew about this." Russia drags his lips lower and picks the place where the War of Independence had left a now invisible aching mark over America's heart and begins to suck.

America laughs dryly. "He would die."

"Oh, in that case maybe we should tell him."

He gets a more genuine laugh from America at that. "Indeed. Well if I ever decide I want to take over the UK I'll do just that."

For a moment Russia muses over the situation. Is this what they had been reduced to? Playful pillow talk, petty arguments in bed that were soon buried with a kiss? If Russia had been told he would be this way with America in the past he would have laughed. Not in a million years would it happen. And yet here they were. It's not like they loved each other. Right before and during sex was the only time the two of them liked one another, or at least could fake it. Still, in that small period of time when they did get along they now felt like lovers. Russia doesn't like it. He wants to feel America shuddering beneath him, crying out his name in a half-moan, half-sob. He wants the scent and taste of fear secreting from America's pours. But we can't have everything we want.

America feels a bit differently about it. Personally, as much as he sometimes misses the fiery lust from days of yore that they had once experienced, this game of theirs was much easier on him. Not so painful and less humiliating on his end. In the past his sexual encounters with Russia had left him shamed and badly wounded. Now he had more of a chance to fight back. It was, however, accepted by both parties that Russia would remain the one in charge. This suits America fine. It was so exhausting the way everyone—including, no, especially himself—always expected him to be at the forefront of everything, the pioneer, the leader... It was deeply gratifying to have Russia dominate him. For a few hours every now and then to slip out of the bravado and let someone else take charge was such a relief sometimes it made him want to cry. That's why he had never tried to shift the control away from Russia, even when things had changed. He would never acknowledge the fact that it was also because a part of him feared that if he tried to take control from Russia he wouldn't be able to. If that happened, these little sex romps might become something very dangerous very quickly.

Russia finally relinquishes his hold on America's wrists, sliding a hand down America's body, along his inner thigh, then hooking his elbow around America's knee to bring the leg up higher. America grunts as Russia penetrates him more deeply. It was time to get to business. There would be no more chatting.

As Russia begins to pick up the pace, America lifts his pelvis. He wouldn't be able to keep it up for long but damn did it feel good.

After some fumbling their bodies are soon synced together, perfectly anticipating each other's movements like lifelong dance partners. America reaches around and claws at Russia's back again, mumbling incoherent words against his neck.

Russia searches for that sweet little spot that made America his slut. Finally, he finds it. He can tell by the way America presses more greedily against him, trying so very vainly to hide his gasp of pleasure. Soon America would be biting back his name. But he would break. He always does...

With a smirk Russia focuses his attention on that spot, his free hand tangling itself in America's hair.

After a long struggle from America, there is finally the rewardingly sweet sound of a lusty moan that sounds suspiciously like 'Russia'. The moan turns into a mantra repeated again and again, coming out as small gasps and loud cries. The sound of America shamelessly calling out his name turns Russia on. It was always his favorite part of their game when America surrendered to him, giving in to his lust.

The room is filled with the sounds of America's voice and the husky sound of Russia panting with each thrust. Beads of perspiration form, making their bodies slick.

Soon they are both lost in it, lost in this ritual that brought them back to a time when they had been gods, ruling with fear. When the fate of the world had dangled at their fingertips, destruction hanging by an invisible wire. A time when the weapons had been science, technology, and progress. A theoretical war of the minds.

This game after all, their entwined bodies and thick lust, was not about love. It was about power, and ego, and self-loathing, and raw pleasure. All these things tumbling together, grating upon them with the grinding of their bodies. Caresses that dominated. Kisses with the ghostly taste of blood.

As they both approach orgasm their bodies sing with anticipation. Not just from the physical pleasure, but because this was how they soothed the wounds they had given one another. After all, they had inflicted the best wounds on the inside. On the heart, in the mind. Inside where they could not be kissed away or even reached, where they burned like acid. Forever reminders of the other's existence. A permanent claim. Copulation and that final brilliant release the only thing that relieved the tension of these injuries.

America throws his head back with a final cry on his lips as he climaxes, letting the tainted pleasure wash over him in vibrant waves. Not long after Russia reaches his peak, even letting his irritation at America's immediate disinterest in the act after coming fade within the white hot sensation.

Breathing hard, the two remain in a still, dazed state until their heartbeats slow to a normal tempo. Recovered, Russia pulls out of America and collapses haphazardly onto the bed, nearly crushing America's arm under his weight in the process. The two lie side by side, no longer touching nor even desiring to touch yet content all the same.

There was never cuddling or gently whispered words after the deed was done. They hadn't become that pathetic yet. The silence was good enough.

America's eyelids feel heavy. The desire to sleep is strong, but he can't do that. Who knew what Russia would do to him. A shower would do the trick, he just had to force himself to get up. His body doesn't respond. He would give it a couple more minutes to rest then he really had to leave. When they had first started he had been out the door literally five minutes after they were done. It doesn't sit well with him that he could linger as long as an hour these days. Maybe he was getting too comfortable.

Russia studies the lethargic America. After a while he reaches over and gently taps his cheek. America twitches, obviously startled by the contact. "What do you want?"

Russia smiles to himself. "Next time I want to handcuff you."

America lets out a resigned sigh. "You are never going to let that die are you?"

"Mmm, well I guess... No not really."

There is a long pause of silence. Finally, "Maybe next time I'll let you tie up one of my hands, only one, with a scarf or something easy to get off. And in no way can my other hand be restrained at any point."

Russia brightens. "Really?"

"Maybe," America says noncommittally.

Russia smiles smugly to himself. Whether America was only saying it to get him off his case or not didn't matter. He would hold him to it next time. When he wanted to he could be very persuasive. He had his ways.

America starts to sit up. Russia reaches over and picks up his glasses from the bedside table. "Leaving already?"

America raises an eyebrow. "Already? You say that as if I'm prone to staying in bed all day with you."

He reaches for his glasses and Russia pulls them out of his reach. "Maybe I want to fuck you again. Have you ever thought of that?"

America narrows his eyes. "You don't."

"No. Not particularly."

"Then why say it?"

Russia smiles. "It's the principle of the thing, don't you think?"

America rolls the words over in his mind. Finally he slumps back into the bed. "You should leave this time. I want to sleep."

"Then sleep. But I'm not leaving."

The two of them lock eyes, America's glaring, Russia's amused. Finally America reaches over and snatches Texas out of Russia's grasp. "Fine."

He slides off the bed, searching for his clothes. Russia sits up. "I thought you were staying?"

America shakes his head briskly. "I changed my mind. If you won't leave then I will."

Russia chuckles to himself. "Maybe next time you'll stay."

America glares at him. "Don't count on it."

Russia watches America zip around the room, claiming anything that belongs to him. Maybe was such a nice little word. So much potential for hope and dashed dreams in one neat package.

Maybe Russia would eventually convince America to let him handcuff him.

Maybe someday America would stay.

Maybe there would come a time where they would both grow tired of this game.

Maybe.

But not today.

~ End

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Translation:

Америка-America (Pretty much the idea behind this is he says America with a much stronger Russian accent here)


End file.
